Green Tea with Jasmine Pt. 01

Summer, 2002.

In late August around here the sun still hangs high above the horizon at seven at night and it doesn't get black until about eleven, but the clear air is starting to cool and the winds approaching dusk whisper that fall's brief rainy prelude to winter's long gray hand is not far off. I have been alone for about ten days. I catch myself clenching and unclenching my fists throughout the day. I have the itch. I make the calls. After the usual who-what-where questions, I find myself riding up the elevator of a grungy apartment block.

I've seen her picture and I recognize her instantly. There are women who are imperfectly photogenic - they look better in real life than in their pictures. She is one of them. In photographs, she has a mannish face, perhaps from the shadow her nose casts, perhaps from the slightly too strong chin, perhaps from the way that the camera lights the center of her face making her tan look jaw-heavy, almost like five o'clock shadow. In natural light, smiling at me, she's radiant. She smiles like she's been waiting a week, a month, her whole sweet life for your humble narrator's return, and not the 45 minutes since I introduced myself over the phone. The smile, of course, is a lie beautifully told. She says, hi come in, and I follow into the apartment.

There is a protocol to this. She's checked me out from her window already, when I was calling from below to say that I'm at the given address. If she hadn't liked what she saw, I'd have been given a story, usually from a short list of old standby euphemisms such as "I have to meet my mother at the train station" or "My girlfriend just got dumped and she needs me" (tested euphemisms for "I just got my period"). My options would have been to be gentlemanly and philosophical, or churlish and abusive. In either case, the phone call would have been brief and I would have gone on my way to the next number. It's happened to me, and I have always gone with the first option, feeling no malice but a twinge of jealousy that they have found a way in their profession to do what I in mine have always dreamed of - turning away clients. Anyway, the fact that I am standing here, getting smiled all over me, means I passed the first part of the ritual.

The next part is what I call the tea ceremony. These apartments are small, usually two rooms and a kitchen and bath. The kitchen is not stocked; nobody really lives here. But there is coffee - instant, usually - and tea. And chocolates. And whatever I had been smart enough to bring. She had asked me for a bowl's worth of fresh fruit when I called. Apples are plentiful, but oranges have always been a delicacy in this city thousands of miles from the nearest groves so I bought those. And a bottle of wine. So before I can even pull out the trailer park standard floral pattern vinyl kitchen chair to sit in, she has a tray of cut up oranges, chocolates, tea and wineglasses laid out. She'd had a bit to drink already, just enough to put a slight yeasty tang to the smell of her sweat. I tell her I would stick to tea but that she should feel free to drink the wine, which was unopened. She sips a bit of it and we move to the interview.

So. Names, mine real, hers fake. Nice weather. Very nice. Nice tans. Mine? Sicily. Hers? The roof and the new salon at her health club. Yes, I have an accent. Those pictures of her must be old, her hair is longer. Last year? What do I like? Lots of things. What does she like? Lots of things. How long can I stay? At least two hours. Maybe more? She isn't busy. Sure. How does she handle the, uh, crucial question? When I leave, that's fine. Would I like to finish the tea in the other room, after I take a quick shower? What a lovely suggestion.

In the shower, I'm having an internal argument. Imagine the "shoulder devil/shoulder angel" schtick, only they're both shoulder devils where one is simply gentle everday noonday devil evil, but the other is pure wickedness.

The nice shoulder devil is saying, you know, you could try just being gentle. See if you can do it. Just your fingertips, tongue, cock. Slow and gentle. Look at her. She's so sweet. Don't you want to know what it feels like to make a woman like that come without the storm raging all around her? Does she look like she wants the sound and the fury? The wicked shoulder devil is sneering at Gentle and saying, they ALL do, everyone seems to realize that but you. But I'll make you a deal. She's yours for as long as you want. You can do whatever you want to her, all sweet and no pain and no ropes and no tricks. I'll just watch. BUT. When you want to get hard, I mean really hard, like poke-it-through-drywall-and-concrete-hard and you want to feel yourself slide into her? When you want to hear her coo into your ear? When you want to feel the arteries inside her pounding on your dick? You gotta go through me, chief. Understand?

And the deal is struck and I wander out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around me. She is down almost to one knee, putting on music, lighting candles (for scent, not light, it's still light out). She is in a short orange dress, braless, and she is poised so that as I come in I can see up her thigh to her panties. She turns to one side, ostensibly to put the lighter back on the table behind her, twisting and pivoting on one leg like a racquetball player getting a corner ball, and I can see the muscles and the tendons of her upper inner thigh flex and stretch. The panties draw against the contours of her crotch. But it's all over in a second and she stands up. She uses tease mode sparingly. Good shoulder devil is hoping to match her grace with some style. Bad shoulder devil is eyeing the bed for anchor points.

She gives me that kiss, you know like the famous V-E Day Parade LIFE Magazine smooch, the one with her wrists around my neck, on her tiptoes, one leg back, letting me pull her in, letting my cock rest against her stomach, her breasts against my gut. I reach down to pull the hem of her dress up, peeling it off of her. Her hands go up to allow the dress to slide off. We continue to kiss, and she keeps her hands up, because this pulls her breasts up, allowing her nipples to rub my stomach. I have to bend over because I am almost a foot taller than she is, so I push her gently back onto the bed.

She kisses like she is going to die tomorrow, like this is the last moment of pleasure she expects to receive in her life. Her mouth, those perfect white teeth, opens wider, wider, as if my tongue could expand to fill her. She lets out only the smallest sigh. And she waits for my next move. I tell her to grab the head of the bed. She nods, and I kneel between her thighs, sliding down the last triangle of cloth off her body.

Before I describe her naked body, a word on my concept of beauty in the female form. More specifically, what makes one woman's body clearly more fuckable than another's. There is no delicate way to describe the number of women I have been with. The number is not fair, nor respectable. Suffice it to say, I have probably had more partners than you. This does not make me a great lover. It certainly does not make me a great man. But I can say that I've discovered a few truths:

1.Women below the age of 25 have no idea how to fuck. As tight and smooth and sweet and delectable as they may look, they simply have not had enough experience to allow them to access their own lust. They might do anything, say anything, and let themselves be used every which way - but their response, the look on their face, is pure "Is this going to be on the exam?" As they approach and pass their 30s, however, their ovaries are putting them into permanent heat.

2.Women who have not had children are not able to take the kind of pain that is necessary to experience intense sexual pleasure. I'm not just talking about the obvious effects on their pelvic structure, or their familiarity with the ecstatic agonies that can be visited on their vagina. I'm talking about the raw emotional vulnerability of motherhood, the association of unconditional love and surrender to a creature that will take years to love you back, and will - ultimately - betray that love by becoming independent. To a mother, all of that ripping abuse is part of what she has become. It breaks her heart and she loves it. Someone who has not had children is still foolishly expecting a world of fairness and logic. Someone who has had children understands that joy and despair are not actually two separate concepts.

3.Women who are aware that they are accepted by a large portion of the population as stunningly beautiful, as perfect, are almost always surprisingly disappointing and lousy lays. It's not just that they are reluctant to engage in acts that threaten their looks, or that they are afraid that what you have in mind will make them, even for a moment, look unattractive or humiliate them. It's not even that they are generally arrogant. I have been with a couple of Hollywood-quality lookers. Even the ones who were generally nice still had long ago learned to use their beauty as a shield. It was as if we were in a three-way: me and her and her looks. One of them even said "When you fuck your wife, you'll imagine what I look like. When you fuck me, you're fucking what I look like. You are cheating on your wife with me, you are cheating on me with my looks."

4.A truly beautiful woman is like a piece of art, like a piece of masterpiece Japanese porcelain - somewhere, there is an obvious flaw. It can be a slightly largish nose, or a scar, or a tooth out of place. She is not beautiful in spite of it. It is beautiful because of her. Skin, however, needs to glow.

5.Hands down, natural brunettes are always better smelling, better tasting, hornier, sexier and more beautiful than blondes, natural or otherwise.

6.A woman who does not have at least 10 extra pounds on her is probably incapable of more than 5 orgasms in a row.

Jasmine is an exception only to rule 6. She had been a gymnast in her youth, travelled around the world in youth gymnastics troupes. Like most gymnasts, she had been built like a boy until at a young age she had been deflowered against her will and left with child. Pregnancy and nursing made her breasts grow, but that had been ten years ago and because her tiny figure had not changed with one pregnancy, her breasts deflated a bit. Fortunately they had never been huge, or they would have hung. Her nipples are dark and they pulsate when she is aroused. The rest of her is toned with exercise. A large appendectomy scar sits right over her right pelvic ridge, but the surgeon, ahead of his time, had taped the wound so the line was not raised. Her skin is flawless and dark, making me wonder whether there were a secret cache of Latinos running around the corner of the Volga plains where she had been raised. She never wears any makeup or any scent. Her nails are short and unlacquered.

Despite childbirth and what must be a rather broad selection of visitors to that area of her anatomy, she looks like a young orchid when I raise her thighs to her chest and spread her knees. I cup her ass in the fingers of my hand, squeezing slightly to see how much pinch it takes before she protests. She only gasps. With my thumbs, I squeeze down on her outer lips, parting her like a book, two waves of skin on either side, the knob of her clitoris - the old word in Russian for it means "the lusty little thing" - exposed. I let her feel the tip of my tongue outside the majora, then over them, then between them and the minora, then over the ridges of the minora, then over the top of the clit - not touching it, just circling around it - for about five minutes to let her wetten and soften and start to moan and buck and try to push it into my mouth. I lick around her ass. I lick the small trimmed hairs that are in a triangle an inch above where the slit starts. I have a small beard and mustache, nothing on my cheeks. I use my mustache on her clit, my beard on her cunt, or my nose on her clit and the sides of my smooth cheeks on her mound. She won't ask for the tongue. They rarely do. They want it but they can't ask for it. They might say "kiss the little girl" meaning the pussy as a whole or "kiss it" meaning the clit but they can't bring themselves to beg to be eaten.

I know she wants to bring her hands down to guide my head but it's clear she only does what she's told. I give her the tongue now, feeling the heat and salt on my mouth as her clitoris jumps at the tickle. She groans. I look up to see her face. She's got her eyes closed and her mouth is open, but the noises are still quiet. It's daylight. She has a roommate in the next room. Nasty shoulder devil is telling me to grab the panties, gag her, tie her up and juice her like a lemon. Gentle shoulder devil is reminding of the two hour deal. They reach a compromise.

I tell her to put her hands down under her ass and I grab them, lifting her ass up, pushing her pussy into my face. I jam my tongue into her cunt and she cries out, then tries to be quiet. Gentle shoulder devil shrugs and says Fuck it. Nasty shoulder devil pumps his fist like a guy in a beer commercial and says Yes! I roll her on her stomach and tie her hands together behind her back with one of the three or four bandannas I always carry with me. I don't ask, I don't tell, I just do it. No protest, but she keeps her eyes on me, gauging if and when she needs to call time. I roll her back on her back and push her legs up and resume. Now I can use my hands on her. I slide one, then two, then three fingers in her, in and out as I lick her. Now she's squeaking and whimpering. I start to thrust my three fingers in all the way, grabbing inside for her G-spot and she is in agony, but not from the fingering, from the frustration. I know what the problem is.

I take my mouth off her pussy, and I slide up to her face. I am now working four fingers into her, and stroking her hair and face with the other hand. I kiss her. She's looking at me, eyes glazed and tears starting to roll, groaning through gritted teeth. You have to let this sound out, I say, or the pain won't turn into pleasure. She whispers between groans that it's not possible, there are neighbors to consider, this is where she works. I ball up her panties and she nods in understanding. I tell her I have to know she trusts me. I say, I can't tell you I won't hurt you because I will, but I won't harm you. She nods and opens her mouth. Her eyes are shining as I gag her with the balled panties and then tie them tightly in with another bandanna. I hold her ankles up, keeping her knees pressed to her chest, and I reach for my belt. Her eyes widen, afraid that I am going to beat her. Not this time, I say. I use the belt to tie around her back and the back of her thighs. I have now folded her in half. I take a fistful of her hair and pull, making her look at me.

You are mine now, I say. For as long as I want, for whatever I want. They won't even hear you in the next room. Her eyes widen. She is small enough to allow me to continue to look her in the eye as I slide my four fingers like a blade into her cunt. She howls in pain as I move them rhythmically in and out. All the time I am using my thumb on her clit.

Look me in the eyes, I say. You can scream all you want and I won't stop. But if your eyes show me you are beyond your limit, I will know.

She nods. She's crying. She loves this. Or maybe only I love this. Does it matter?

I tell her this game is called the Niner.

I slide the fingers in and out slowly, tapping the G-spot on the full in-stroke. I whisper One. She moans.

I do that again, same tempo. I whisper Two. Moan.

Again. Three. Moan.

Four. Moan.

Five. Moan.

Six. Moan.

Seven. Moan.

Then I growl 8 and 9 and I jab in and out quickly. She screams from the shock.

I wait a second. One. Moan. Two. Moan. Three... up to six. And then 7 8 9 I jab and her screams turn to howls.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

6 7 8 9. Howls to shrieks.

One. Two. Three. Four.

5 6 7 8 9. Shrieks now with head rolls.

One. Two. Three.

4 5 6 7 8 9. Her eyes are wide open, her nostrils flare. She sees nothing.

One. Two.

3 4 5 6 7 8 9. Her neck is now back, so the top of her head is rolling back onto the bed.

One.

2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9. She's letting out the kind of puffing breaths they teach in Lamaze.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9. The squeals double with intensity with each thrust until, by the time I hit the last number, it sounds like two chainsaws colliding. Her eyes roll up. She arches her back, points her toes at the ceiling, and I watch her stomach rise and fall, knowing that her diaphragm is about to pop. Her jaws are wide open, the gag is loosening, her eyes are open and seeing nothing. I put my hand over her mouth and whisper "let it all out" in her ear. The only place for the sound to escape is her nose, so the howl sounds like it comes from a well, a salt mine, from a cave leading to Hell itself. Her vaginal muscles spasm around my fist. My hand is soaked. I am covered in sweat, just as she is.

And the wave, as violent as it is, is brief. When she relaxes, I remove my hands from her mouth and cunt. I take her gag out, and she is gasping and sobbing. But she is smiling at me. I wipe my hand on her face, and make her lick my fingers and hand. I kiss her as I rub my hand on her ass, spreading her cheeks, tickling her tailbone. She won't say anything. I asked her if that was too much. She shakes her head no. I get her a bit of wine, let her sip it.

She's still tied like a pretzel. I tell her enough of the foreplay and now it's time for some real sex. She opens her mouth for the gag. Now silenced again, she watches as I reach for the long silk scarf she had left on her dresser. She watches me as I take a condom from the night table, open it with my teeth, and slide it on with one hand. I look at the window. Still broad daylight out. I have been here less than an hour.

She makes only the tiniest of involuntary squeals of fear as I wrap the scarf twice around her throat. Her eyes shut, even as I slide myself into her.

Open your eyes and look into mine, I say. You will still be terrified, I guarantee it. But as long as you can see that I am sane and in control, you won't lose your mind. The more you connect, the safer you will be. If you lose me, you are gone.

Her eyes snap open. Her breath is shallow, from fear and from the tightening scarf.

A word of advice, I whisper as I pull the ends of the scarf and start to thrust, again using the nines, into her. When you think you are about to lose consciousness, fight it. You'll still pass out, but it will make it easier to pull that first breath when I loosen. Understand?

She nods, once.

Scared?

She nods, once.

There's someone in the next room, isn't there.

She nods, twice. Two people.

They won't hear you. You can't get enough air to make enough sound. Really scared?

The tiniest of squeals. I grow harder and larger, pounding into her.

Don't be scared, I say. I smile and lean down. Be terrified. But do not give up. You're bound and gagged, I have 20 centimeters on you and weigh more than twice what you do and I am on top of you, and your roommate and pimp in the next room can't hear you over the World Cup on television. Your life is in my hands, but also in yours. If you don't find a way to fight me, to convince me you want to live...

A throaty sob strangles in her throat. She rubs her heels on my back. She wriggles underneath me as her cunt gushes on my balls. I tighten harder. So does she. Good, I whisper. Keep it up.

Meanwhile, the shoulder devils have retreated to the small table with the burning candle to watch your stallion topping his mare. Wicked has thrown an Oxford don's robe over his leathers, and Gentle is taking notes from Wicked's lecture: